


The Week That Wasn't

by Hattingmad



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hattingmad/pseuds/Hattingmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam gays up the holidays in Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Week That Wasn't

Aziraphale was dithering (1), unsure how to bring up this most delicate of subjects post-almost-apocalypse. It had been years since the event, and he wished he could leave well enough alone.

“I think,” began the angel slowly, “that Adam has been tinkering with the fabric of reality again.” There. The cat was out of the basket. Or was it ‘bag’? He never could remember.

“What makes you say that?” Crowley inquired, lazily sipping at a tropical drink (2) while Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly.

“Well, it’s either that or… oh, look, I’ll just say it. Have your lot been putting any ideas into JK Rowling’s head recently?” Crowley’s eyes widened in silent laughter.

“You mean the whole kerfuffle about Dumbledore? I thought that was your department’s job. Tolerance and love and all that.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh, but I suppose it’s not company policy to openly acknowledge homosexuality, what with the awkward mix-up about Leviticus.” He shook his head, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. “It wasn’t us.”

“And it wasn’t from my side, I assure you.” Aziraphale reflected for a moment. “If we’d done it, she also would have confirmed the Puppyshippers as canon. Far less people ranting about pedophilia that way.”

“Aha!” Crowley said smugly, shaking a finger at him. “I knew your lot had a hand in the movies, I’ve been saying so for years! ‘Embraced like brothers,’ my ass.” He composed himself. “She wouldn’t have done it of her own accord, you don’t think?”

“It’s not just her,” the angel continued, picking in an agitated fashion at a thick wooly scarf around his neck. “The whole country’s become a bit- er- ”

“Queerer than usual?” Crowley frowned momentarily. “I suppose you’re right.” He cocked his head. “You don’t think Adam’s trying to make it easier on his friends? Help them come out of the closet?”

“What, Brian and Wensleydale? The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well? What do you want to do about it?” The demon kicked his possibly-snakeskin boots up and lounged back in his chair, arms behind his head. He leered at Aziraphale in a fashion that made the angel actually blush.

“Oh, no,” he stammered, backpedaling. “We’re innately sexless incorporeal beings, you flash bastard you, and we shouldn’t encourage the boy by tipping the balance even further, not that I’m not flattered but _honestly_ Crowley, and anyway it’s been a millennia at least since I’ve kissed anyone, even if I _wanted_ to, which I’m not saying I do… and don’t LOOK at me like that!” His voice rose an octave when Crowley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“ ‘About Adam,’ is what I was going to say, angel,” he replied with a disarming and altogether too-understanding look. Then, with a wicked smirk, “but now that you mention it, we _are_ in corporeal bodies. Sure, it takes effort to manifest the correct anatomy, but…”

“Lust,” Aziraphale said miserably, regretting that he’d brought it up at all, “is a sin. Deadly, in fact.”

“Song of Solomon,” Crowley countered. “Er, Song of Songs. Whatever they’ve decided on.” He flapped a hand in the angel’s general direction. “Erotic love poetry. In the Bible.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale began pedantically, and then realized that he had absolutely nothing to say. He made a pathetic sort of ‘ding’ noise, utterly flustered.

“Oh, heavens, must go, I have a customer. In the bookshop.” (3) He scurried away, wondering how on earth he was possibly going to explain this new wrinkle in the universe to his superiors in Heaven. He hadn’t been hiding from them, exactly, but since the apocalypse he’d just… been busy. It had slipped his mind to write his annual reports, and now they’d probably be demanding an explanation for his actions. He hadn’t been the most effective angel recently. Grant you, he’d done small miracles and worked wonders here and there (4), but he certainly hadn’t done anything too spectacular. Not like when he was the angel at the Easter Gate, wielding the power of the Almighty with great dignity and authority. Aziraphale didn’t want to draw attention to himself, truth be told. He was afraid Heaven would take him away from his life here… from his bookshop… from drunken arguments with Crowley. He knew he’d miss the demon and all his provocations without exactly understanding _why_. Well, alright, if he dug hard enough he could probably think of the answer, but admitting it even to himself was terrifying enough. Crowley could never know.

Crowley grinned. Perhaps he should make a visit to the Them. As it occurred, he had an angel to tempt for Christmas _and_ a well-meaning Antichrist to sort out. Then he thought better of it (or worse, he supposed, being a demon). Harassing the angel would be much more fun, and was therefore first priority.

***

“Do you think we should tell Adam we’re already together?” Brian asked, flipping through the pages of his favorite paperback novel. He rested his head on the other young man’s shoulder and sighed, content. Getting a flat together close to uni was one of the most brilliant things they’d ever done. Sure, Adam and Pepper lived in the flat right across the hall, but a room of one’s own, well… Brian didn’t want to go all Virginia Woolf-y (that was Wensley’s department), but it was nice.

“Nah,” said Wensleydale. “I mean,” he amended, tilting his head sideways to get a better look at the front cover, “yeah, we should, but I’m not going to. Sort of a nice Christmas present, innit? I’m enjoying this too- say, why’s that guy’s hair floating like that? Is he drowning, or part-fish?”

“Neither. He’s Martian.” Brian closed his eyes, longsuffering. It wasn’t Wensley’s fault that he’d been raised by heathens who’d never heard of “Stranger in a Strange Land”.

***

Pollution was inconsolable, as temperamental artists usually were first thing in the morning. However, he was inconsolable about new technology breakthroughs in emission-saving hydrogen-fueled cars, which temperamental artists usually weren’t. It should be here acknowledged that sometimes things have cosmic echoes. Near-apocalypses especially tend to have backlash. As it happened, Brian was Pollution’s cosmic equivalent and opposite, and Wensleydale was Famine’s. As the two boys entered, tentative and fumbling, into a romantic relationship with each other, Famine too found the younger Horseperson staring at him oddly. They seemed to run into each other quite a bit on various jobs, and Famine found himself almost looking forward to their collaborations. Pollution added such a delectable chemical flair to his already-precise work on starvation and entropy. So often, Famine’s work was in answer to something Pollution had already cooked up, and they were Horsepersons-in-arms, so to speak (5). Famine found his thin lips curving into a semblance of a smile as his starving receptionist murmured in a voice so thin he could hear her stomach eating away at itself, “Visitor here to see you, Dr. Sable. He says he’s an old friend, name of-” she paused, listening for a moment, “-White.”

“Send him in.” The door opened and the young entity slouched in the door, perching on Famine’s immaculate desk and proceeding to corrode every speck of metal in the room. The potted plants wilted. Famine raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here?” His tone was more pleased than stern. The boy was such a welcome distraction sometimes.

“In the area, wasn’t I? Thought I’d come say hi.” He shrugged an eloquent shoulder, staring at his reflection in a silvery paperweight for a moment before his touch rendered it contaminated.

“Do you pester the others as much as you do me?” Famine asked, vaguely amused at the thought of Pollution attempting to strike up a conversation with their fellow Horsepersons. Pollution glanced down, long eyelashes fluttering. He shifted restlessly.

“Well, no. I mean, War’s great, but she’s not the sort you’d take to the pub, right? Very… feral. Not polished like you. She makes me uneasy,” he admitted. “And Azrael’s just… well, he’s HIM, you know? SPEAKS IN CAPITAL LETTERS.”

“Yes,” Famine said softly, supposing he did, indeed, understand.

“But you,” and here the young man looked up at him earnestly, placing a pale hand over Famine’s, “you get it, I think. You understand. Why we’re here. What we do all this for.” He gestured around the room. “I mean, yeah, it’s a job, sure, but it’s not just. We _change_ things. We’re artists. We live in the eternal now.”

“I confess,” said the slim dark man to his cohort, studying his face intently, “that eternity has become far more interesting with you around.”

“Exactly,” said Pollution, eyes shining. He placed a hand on Famine’s cheek, feeling the sharp jutting angles of his bones through his skin. “What we do, what we are… us two. We can make so much more together than we could alone.”

“Are you suggesting we…” He wasn’t sure, exactly, what the other entity was proposing, only that something in his gut was excited by his nearness as he had not been since the Irish Potato Famine. He wanted to say yes, but wasn’t sure what that would entail. He worked alone, always had, until Pestilence retired and this boy was dropped into his lap with his delectable ideas and vaguely taunting form. Famine was unsure how to change now.

Pollution cocked his head. He smiled a toxic sunrise smile, a riot of unnatural beauty so pretty that no one thought to question what chemicals made it that way. He brushed a thumb across Famine’s suddenly-dry lips, and the taste that hit Famine’s bloodstream was like the purest form of Ecstasy.

“Just think about it,” he said, hopping off the desk.

Famine did.

***

Brian and Wensleydale watched in bemusement as their favorite telly program was interrupted by a breaking news announcement from the BBC: A reporter in a somber suit was interviewing a harried-looking man who was waving about a manuscript. The tagline scrolling across the screen read, “Not all Humbuggery for Marley and Scrooge”.

“Dicken’s classic A Christmas Carol,” the reporter announced to the camera, “is a widely-known story. Stingy old miser gets visited by three spirits because his dead business partner wants him to celebrate Christmas and not go to hell. Yet, as Mr. Wilkins, attributed Dickens scholar, tells me, there just might be more to the story.”

“There is strong suspicion amongst some of the more progressive scholars,” said Mr. Wilkins earnestly, “that the line: ‘in life, I was your partner, Jacob Marley’ implies more than just a good business relationship between the two misers. Scrooge, it is written, has a portrait of Jacob on his mantle in his bedroom. Suspicious, no?”  
Brian grinned and nudged Wensley in the ribs.

“Adam’s really trying, isn’t he?”

“Additionally,” the reporter blathered on, “in recent holiday readings of the text, a new bit has appeared, even in old first-editions. It reads as Scrooge saying, ‘we were happy together, Jacob, were we not? After Isabel, I abandoned all hope of love with women. But you, Jacob, were no woman.’ ” Wensleydale almost fell off the couch. He shared a look of abject horror with his boyfriend. Adam was no deft touch with the classics.

***

In the next room over, Pepper and Adam were mock-wrestling on the couch, embroiled in an argument about current political candidates and the various merits of pungent cheese. Pepper pinned Adam to the ground, breathing heavily.

***

Elsewhere: War and Death locked eyes with each other. There was fear in her eyes for the first time in existence.

“No,” she said flatly. Around her, several fistfights broke out as lovers in the park suddenly discovered they hated each other’s guts. Shots rang out.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Death agreed as, in the distance, a helicopter full of soldiers arrived. He stared at her meaningfully. The helicopter blew up spectacularly, but as Death was busy at the moment and did not wish to be further inconvenienced, no one was killed.

“Sorry,” War said, reigning in her emotions. The brawls died down to a minor scuffle.

***

Adam shoved Pepper off him and brushed himself off, laughing nervously. “Stop being so weird, Pep.” She chuffed him affectionately on the arm.

“You’re the weird one, Adam. And scrawny. Anyone ever tell you that?”

***

“The idea is ludicrous,” War said. “Still, they have been spending an awful lot of time together.”

Death stared pensively off into the distance. He fed the ducks, pondering ineffability and his two co-workers. He shrugged his shoulder-bones, supposing everyone had to have a hobby. Except him, of course. The ducks quacked their agreement.

***

Crowley banged on Aziraphale’s door, concerned, and not just over the Dickens bombshell. He’d gone round the bookstore already and seen boxes strewn all over the floor with the contents of the angel’s life in them, precious first-editions that Aziraphale would rather discorporate than part with.

“Going on vacation? New flat?” He mumbled to himself, pounding on the door yet again before giving up and just kicking it in. “No, hang on, I’ve got it. They want you back, don’t they? Bloody buggers Up There told you to pack it in and come home. Well, they’re not getting you. We have an Arrangement, dammit. I was going to seduce you for Christmas.”

“Oh, do come in,” the angel called from his bedroom, voice muffled as he was currently lying prone under a pile of scrolls. “I was just reorganizing my books from the Dewey Decimal System to the Library of Congress’s. I thought I’d try something different.” He paused.

“Crowley? Is something wrong?” He found himself suddenly squeezed tight in the demon’s arms and was grateful that he did not actually need to breathe.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” Crowley said fiercely. “I thought They’d stolen you back.”

“Er, no,” Aziraphale admitted, guilty and embarrassed- though not embarrassed enough to refrain from returning the demon’s embrace. “I didn’t actually mention the Adam incident to Heaven yet… it’s pure conjecture, anyway, and I think between us we can handle it without involving our superiors, don’t you?” He looked hopefully up at Crowley, who was sagging against him in relief, then blinked several times.

“You’re not wearing your sunglasses.”

“No,” Crowley admitted, not wanting to explain that he’d been so alarmed at Aziraphale’s seeming disappearance that he’d left without grabbing them.

“And you’re… is that… are those _leather_ trousers?” Aziraphale squeaked, stepping back in alarm. Crowley nodded, back in his element again. He couldn’t fathom why the thought of Aziraphale leaving had shaken him so, but he had been deeply disturbed by the thought. As an agent and technical denizen of hell, he could entertain thoughts of lusting after the angel’s physical form, but actually caring for him was right out. Of course, Crowley was rather bad at being a demon, except in areas of devil-may-care suavity and charm. There, naturally, he excelled. He’d been voted Hell’s Best Dressed for 200 years running, and he prided himself on taking calculated risks with couture. Right away, he could tell from his comrade’s reaction that the pants suited him. He swaggered a little.

“Er,” Aziraphale said again, trying his hardest not to ogle the demon. “Aren’t they a bit too… tight?” Not-ogling was a spectacular failure. He covered his eyes with his hand and tried to stem the blush rising from his starched collar to his cheekbones.

“That’s actually the fashion,” Crowley said gleefully. He stretched in nonchalant languor and allowed his dress shirt to lift up, revealing a thin line of smooth and tantalizing flesh. This sort of temptation suited him, and he could see it was flustering the angel immensely.

“They mold to me like butter.” Aziraphale considered this statement for a moment, and then shuddered with some emotion that Crowley was far too clever to mistake for disgust. Nonetheless, he played it for all it was worth. “Don’t you like them?” He said in mock-concern. “I can get rid of them.” With a wave, his clothes vanished. Crowley advanced on Aziraphale, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale, effectively pinning him against the wall.

“Is this better?” He hissed near the angel’s ear. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to seduce Aziraphale, really; but all of England was alternate-lifestyle friendly at the moment and he felt that the opportunity was just too good to pass up. The angel was gaping at his nude form, eyes glazed over, muttering to himself. It sounded like _‘mimblewimble’_. His fingers twitched spasmodically and he balled his hands into fists.

“I really need to talk to Adam,” he squeaked, and disappeared, leaving Crowley to a) wonder what had just happened and b) get drunk in the back room.

***

“It isn’t done yet,” the former Antichrist said serenely as Aziraphale waved the latest newspaper headlines at him. The Guardian screamed, _Prince Charles leaves Camilla for busboy!_

From the Evening Sun: _Charlie announces ‘tampon thing’ was really phallic metaphor!_

Finally, from the Metro: _Future King likes blokes._

“But…” Aziraphale stammered. “You have to put it back the way it was!”

“It’s my Christmas gift to some friends,” Adam said stubbornly. “And it hasn’t run its course yet.” He paused and looked speculatively at Aziraphale. With characteristic insight and bluntness, he said, “It’s okay to love him, you know. I wouldn’t blame you for it, and if it’s any incentive, he cares about you too.”

“He does?” Aziraphale spluttered. “I mean, that is, it isn’t permitted… I’m not supposed to—”

“What do you want me to say?” Adam asked, shrugging. “ ‘Your sins are forgiven?’ I’m not in that business.” He looked down at his wristwatch. “I’m late to class. Pepper’ll be furious if I’m not there for our presentation. Sorry.” He dashed off, leaving the angel wringing his hands in consternation and worry.

***

“I’ve thought it over,” Famine began, “and I cannot help but feel that it is unwise of us to proceed on a course of-” he broke off, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. He fastidiously picked at an invisible speck of lint on his charcoal suit. “No, that won’t do at all,” he muttered.

“I thought about it,” he began again, “and my answer is no.” He sighed. It was for the best, of course, attraction be damned, and he would tell the other entity so, just as soon as he saw him again. He flipped on a slim television set to distract himself from the unpleasant nature of the task ahead, habitually straightening his tie, and almost choked himself with his own Windsor knot. He stared in pleasure and awe at the news report of a profound amount of toxic- yet very aesthetically pleasing- chemicals that had been dumped into the English Channel, which had proceeded to kill off all the aquatic life and ruin the fish-and-chip industry completely. The water steamed and smoked as pretty rainbow slicks of oil illuminated the floating fish. (6) A pale young man was being interviewed as an eyewitness to these proceedings. He practically glowed with excitement as he enthused, “and then the tanker just exploded, it was _brilliant_ …” He looked as if he wanted to scream in wild exultation but was holding himself (just barely) in check. The young man looked directly into the camera, smiled and winked. Famine’s mouth went dry.

An hour and twenty-three minutes later, he was at the scene of the ‘accident’, breathing in the scent of tanker oil and rotting fish.

“Intoxicating, isn’t it?” A voice came from behind him, and arms wrapped around his waist. “Do you like it? It’s my Christmas gift to you.”

“Oh, yes,” Famine breathed. “It’s beautiful.” Then he remembered he had to discourage the younger Horseperson from just this sort of behavior. It was highly inappropriate and unprofessional.

“But I’ve been thinking,” he began, turning to face Pollution.

“Don’t,” Pollution said simply, grabbed him by the tie, and covered Famine’s mouth and tongue with his own. It was at this juncture that Famine decided not to be an ungrateful recipient of Pollution’s generous and heartwarming gift, and sod professionalism anyway. Professionalism was boring and hadn’t got him laid in a thousand years. Normally, this would not be a concern for Famine, but he found that strictly optional aspects of his physical manifestation were making themselves known around Pollution. He grabbed two fistfuls of the entity’s long slick hair, and kissed back.

***

Crowley watched the telly and got exceedingly snookered, giggling to himself over the announcements about the homosexuality of various classic literary characters.

“Jane Austen scholars are baffled and shocked by here-to-fore undiscovered romantic connotations between Darcy and his close friend Mr. Bingley in the classic _Pride and Prejudice_. Colin Firth has gone on record to say that he would be willing to do another adaptation including the new material, which seems to have appeared in the manuscript all by itself. It is highly different from Ms. Austen’s usual style, and the text, appearing on page one hundred and thirty seven, says that Darcy and Bingley share a long embrace and kiss each other full oft on the mouth. A small but fierce contingent of P &P readers in Wales are stating that they ‘knew it all along’ and defend the recent discovery as Austenian canon against all comers.”

Crowley heard the quiet patter of footsteps approach. He ignored them, taking another swig of cheap red wine straight from the bottle.

“I watch mortals love all the time,” he said to the angel without looking away from the telly. “Ssometimes even accidentally, though I’d never admit to it to anyone but you, when I bollocks up the tempting. They wreck themselves and each other over it, destroy everything around them for it. And yet, after all this time, I’ve never really figured it out. It’s bloody ineffable, ‘s what it is.”

Aziraphale smiled faintly at that.

“ ‘m a demon,” Crowley continued, sulking. “Not in my nature to love. Not my job to understand.”

“But surely, my dear…” Aziraphale tried again. “You were an angel before you Fell,” he reminded gently, with infinite compassion in his gaze.

“Sssauntered, really, more than a fall,” Crowley interjected.

“You must remember something of Heaven, of being an angel. And angels _are_ capable of love.” Crowley winced.

“I try to block that out, thanks.” He paused. “S’yeah, I really don’t know what it meansss. Not really. But I think…”

“Yes?” The angel looked at him hopefully.

“Think it meanss…… don’t leave me here alone.” He went quiet and stared at his hands.

“Oh! I-” the angel was lost for words. He felt a lump forming in his throat at Crowley’s simple, yet touching admission. He knew the demon would perhaps never confess his true feelings on the subject of their Arrangement, but he also knew that he would be bereft without Crowley, and the demon seemed to be implying the same. Aziraphale lay a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder and willed him to sober up so that he would better pay attention to what he was about to say.

“Crowley.”

“Mm?”

“You great dunderhead. I would never- I stopped an apocalypse to be with you, for crying out- well, alright, I did it to save the world too, but the world has you in it, and- oh, for Hea- Go- Freddy Mercury’s sake (7) … what I’m trying to say is, I’ll be here. I _am_ here.” Crowley placed his palm over the angel’s hand in silent gratitude. He was awful at explaining himself and even worse at confessions, but Aziraphale just understood. That was when he noticed the soft strains of music wafting from the television in the corner. It seemed that the flurry of Jane Austen news had been replaced with local coverage of enterprising carolers who’d taken it upon themselves to rewrite Joy to the World in light of the ‘outing’ of various literary figures: _“Joy to the world, that Darcy’s queer, and Dumbledore is too! The Doctor and Jack Haaar-kness are shagging in the Taaar-dis, beneath the mistletoe, beneath the mistletoe_...” It reminded him of his duty to seek out Adam and put a stop to all this, but first, he was going to celebrate the holidays.

“Dance with me? For Christmas?” He said, suddenly standing up. The angel looked alarmed, holding his hands out in front of him in a warding-off gesture.

“Oh, I don’t-”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I only know the gavotte, but…”

“That’s alright. I’ll teach you.” Crowley placed his hands at the angel’s waist and guided Aziraphale’s hands to his shoulders. The angel was stiff and awkward in his arms, but Crowley didn’t care. As they made their way around the room in a timeless slow dance, Crowley was barely aware that his feet were no longer touching the floor and that they were dancing cheek to cheek. Aziraphale’s wings had come out and he had a peaceful look on his face. Crowley was well pleased, and despite the fact that he hadn’t seduced his colleague (yet), he considered his plan a grand success.

“Angel?”

“Mm?”

“D’you think we ought to make Adam change things back before he turns Her Majesty into a lesbian? No rush,” he added hastily. “I was just thinking.”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard, then,” the angel said in surprise. Crowley just stared at him.

“Right, we’re off.”

***

“Oh, it wasn’t just for those two,” said Adam in a casual way, wise beyond his years as always. He’d received his thorough lecture on why tampering with the fabric of reality was a bad thing, and why he’d have to wipe everyone’s memories (or that of the general public, at any rate), and he’d nodded patiently through it all. He’d not even acted surprised when Crowley and Aziraphale had told him that his two friends were already a couple, so his plan was wasted. “It was also for you and him,” he nodded toward Crowley, “and for them,” and here he indicated Famine and Pollution, who could be seen holding hands at the congealing seaside.

“I’ll change it back, of course,” Adam said eventually, sauntering away. “Anyway, Merry Christmas.”

“Sneaky bugger,” Crowley muttered. Adam turned and looked back over his shoulder, adding only,

“Oh, and that Dr. Who stuff? That wasn’t me.”

***  
  
1\. This was a fairly common state of being for the angel, ever since that business with the flaming sword in the Garden.  
  
2\. He was, of course, still in Great Britain and the December temperature was in no way amenable to such flights of fancy, but this had never stopped him. Aziraphale sometimes wondered if he wasn’t doing it to spite Hell, which assuredly had a tropical climate, just as he relentlessly insisted on owning the newest technology and quoting obscure pop culture references. The latter, the angel had a feeling, had more to do with the fact that the Annual Amateur Un-talented Gala of Hell (or A.A.U.G.H., which Crowley only mentioned when very drunk indeed) was at least several decades behind ‘the times’, if by ‘times’ one meant Middle Ages.  
  
3\. Crowley thought it wise not to mention that Aziraphale, under the new world Adam had tweaked, had not had any customers in years and the bell had long since rusted off its hinges.  
  
4\. Minor ones only, most of them involving tea  
  
5\. Though not, of course, in the literal weaponry sense as War would take it. More like brothers-in-mischief-mayhem-and-organized-chaos, rather than brothers-in-arms. Er. War had made Pollution watch “Fight Club” once, on the first (and only) Horseperson’s Movie Night. Pollution had to grudgingly like Tyler Durden: he had stolen just a little of Pollution’s style.  
  
6\. No one, oddly enough, seemed to notice, as England was rejoicing in the recent announcement that Jack Harkness and the Doctor were secretly getting it on behind the scenes.  
  
7\. This was generally as close to cursing or blaspheming as Aziraphale ever ventured.  
  



End file.
